Guardian
by Renee6061
Summary: What if Clark had found a way to bring his father back to life that night? Oneshot.


Rating: K

Disclaimer: If they were my characters, the show would be a LOT different.

Author's note: Written for the Jonathan Kent Fan Fiction Project (where Jonathan is alive and well.) What if Clark had found a way to bring his father back to life that night? I don't go into the details of the rescue here; I'll leave that to your imaginations. I'm more interested in what happened afterward. Thanks to Smallvillian for editing and encouragement.

Guardian

The house is dark now, and mostly quiet. It feels weird, almost spooky, after all the commotion of the night.

I'm sitting here in an armchair in the living room, watching my parents, who are sacked out on the couch. It was as far as my father could make it when I brought him in tonight, pale and dazed and shivering in shock. But alive.

I scrambled around piling pillows and blankets on him and making hot tea, and the whole time Mom was holding on to him desperately, like he'd been put back together with superglue and might fall apart if she let go. She's still holding on to him now, in her sleep, with her head on his shoulder and both arms around him.

My own fingers are still resting lightly on his wrist, my eyes trained on him. For the past several minutes he's been breathing quickly, his face working, and I think he must be reliving those terrible moments out in the yard tonight. I'm debating whether to wake him up, when his body jerks slightly and he gives a little cry.

I lean down and speak quickly and gently. "Dad."

He comes awake with a start, staring up at me with wide, confused eyes. I put my left hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, Dad. You're okay now. You're safe."

He sags back onto the pillow with a sigh, and closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. His gaze goes to my mother, curled up against him, her grip still so tight she seems to have become part of him.

Dad pulls her a little nearer and touches his lips to her forehead, before looking back up at me. "Is she okay?" he whispers.

"She'll be fine." I reach to pull the blanket up a little more over them both. "I made her take something to sleep. Do you want some too?"

He shakes his head, the movement on the pillow so slight I can barely see it. "I'm all right."

"You need to sleep, Daddy."

I'm still so close to him I can see him smile faintly in the darkness. "You haven't called me that since—you were seven years old."

"Yeah." I find myself smiling back. It feels strange, as if I hadn't used those particular muscles in a long time. I'm not sure where the word came from either.

"You should—go lie down, son."

My turn to shake my head. "I'm fine right here."

His fingers tighten on mine, then relax, as his eyes close again. He doesn't say anything more.

My eyes still linger on his face, tracing every feature through the shadows. I still struggle to grasp that he's actually here, safe and well. I listen to his steady breathing, with my hearing turned up as high as it will go, and it's almost impossible to believe that just a few hours ago my father was dead.

Because of me.

The thought sears my mind, and I close my eyes against the pain of it. It was all my fault. I thought I could play God and save Lana's life. Instead I made everything so much worse. I stood there and bargained away the life of the person who's done more for me than anyone else in the world, and if by a miracle I hadn't found a way to bring him back, he'd be gone now forever.

I open my eyes again and stare at him as he sleeps, more peacefully now, and despite the darkness it feels like I'm seeing him, _really_ seeing him, for the first time in years.

And I'm seeing a few things about myself too. It's amazing just how fast your outlook changes when you feel your father's body go limp in your arms.

Dad, how could I be so blind and selfish? I let you spend yourself protecting me, like a helpless baby that didn't know any better. Why the hell did I think I have these powers—to sit around and let other people take the punishment for everything I've done wrong? To let people coddle me when I'm stronger than all of them put together?

You were always telling me to protect other people, not to let any harm come to Mom, or my friends, or whoever was in danger from whatever new krypto-freak was running around town at the time. You never asked me to protect you. So you were the one person I failed.

Add extreme literal-mindedness to all the qualities I hate about Kryptonians.

No—that's not right. I can't blame this one on my heritage. Other things, yes—my fear of that voice in the caves for example, and all the panicky and stupid things that fear led me to do. But not the choices that led to this night. This was my mess, my own dumb fault.

The irony almost chokes me. Here I've gone around flattering myself that I was being noble to hide my secret from people, and all the while abusing the trust and ignoring the vulnerability of the few people who do know it. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Or rather, I was thinking about one thing: myself.

No more of it, Dad, I think now. No more sacrifices. No more deal-making on my account, by you or anyone else. All that ends right now. From now on I take care of myself—and I'm going to take care of you too, for a change. You're going to take that new job you've worked so hard for, and you're going to enjoy every second of it, if I have to personally feed Lionel Luthor to the sharks to make sure of it.

At my feet Shelby stirs and grunts softly in his sleep, and then the house sinks back into the quiet of night, broken only by soft breathing. But I've never felt more awake, as I settle back into my chair to keep watch.

The End


End file.
